a rose by any other name would smell as sweet

dear percocet,

i love you, destroy me.
leave me breathless, leave me light
rip the inhibition away along with my sadness,
you are a highway full of toll roads  i'll never get off of
with a very clear, dark destination
(you're worth it)
someone on the internet said that love is defined by sacrifice

what wouldn't i give?

"Percocet can slow or stop your breathing. An overdose can be fatal."

We look for Satan with the same intensity
that my mom and dad looked for God.

In retrospect
my parents were always pushing me to expand my consciousness
by huffing glue or gasoline
or chewing peyote buttons.
Simply because they'd done their time,
wasted their teen years
lolling in the muddy fields of Vermont
and the salt flats of Nevada,
naked except for rainbow face paints
and a thick coating of sweaty filth,
their heads festooned
with fifty pounds of fetid dreadlocks,
teeming with crab lice
and pretending to find enlightenment...
That does NOT mean I have to make the same mistake.

Sorry, Satan,
once again I've said the G-word.

Without breaking stride,
Leonard nods and points
to indicate the former deities of now-defunct cultures,
now warehoused in the underworld.
Among them: Benoth,
a god of the Babylonians;
Dagon,
an idol of the Philistines;
Astarte,
goddess of the Sidonians;
Tartak,
the god of the Hevites.

My suspicion
is that my parents treasure their sordid recollection
of episodes at Woodstock and Burning Man
not because those pastimes led to wisdom,
but because such folly
was inseparable from a period of their lives
when they were young
and unburdened by obligation;
they had free time, muscle tone,
and their futures still looked like a great, grand adventure.
Furthermore,
both my mother and father had been free of social status
and therefore had nothing to lose by cavorting ****,
their swollen genitals smeared with muck.

Thus,
because they had ingested drugs and flirted with brain damage,
they insisted I should do likewise.
I was forever opening my boxed lunch at school
to discover a cheese sandwich,
a carton of apple juice,
carrot sticks,
and a five-hundred-milligram Percocet.
Tucked within my Christmas stocking
--not that we celebrated Christmas--
would be three oranges,
a sugar mouse, a harmonica,
and quaaludes.
In my Easter basket
--not that we called the event Easter--
instead of jelly beans,
I'd find lumps of hashish.
Would that I could forget the scene at my twelfth birthday party
where I flailed at a piñata,
wielding a broomstick in front of my peers
and their respective
former-hippie, former-rasta,
former-anarchist throwback parents.
The moment the colorful papier-mâché burst,
instead of Tootsie Rolls or Hershey's Kisses,
everyone present
was showered with Vicodins,
Darvons, Percodans,
amyl nitrate ampoules,
LSD stamps,
and assorted barbiturates.
The now wealthy,
now-middle-aged parents
were ecstatic,
while my little friends and I couldn't help
but feel a tad bit cheated.

That,
and it doesn't take a brain surgeon to understand
that very few twelve-year-olds
would actually enjoy attending
a clothing-optional birthday party.

Some of the most gruesome images in Hell
seem downright laughable
when compared to seeing an entire generation of adults
stripped **** and wrestling on the floor,
grasping and panting in frantic competition
for a scattered handful of codeine capsules.

Caged organs never sounded so beat
Bone marrow around the brass meat
I'm a toxic lover with love around my waist
And afraid of poisoning, as you taste waste
Cleaning toxins out of my sheets with chemicals.

(commercial break)

Ay-yeah-ya-yeah-yeah
Ay-ay-ay-ay-ay-ay-wa

Breathe me all the ways to stay away
Blood on bathroom tiles that run for miles like crimson Niles
Just stay

Ay-yeah-ya-yeah-yeah
Ay-ay-ay-ay-ay-ay-wa

(Okay, we're back.)

Coals in your cold coat holes
I know you're happy now
I hope you're warm with fingers intertwined
within the future in your ribcage
feel your organs to know you're alive
your heartbeats beat because of a stolen car.
I feel-

(change the station)

Drive me, my baby. I'll turn you out in time. Don't you recognize
you're the only thing I want in sight. I could change your-

(change the station)

You're the one for me. You are my-

(change the station)

I hope you like it like you love it when you should like it because you love it without liking it with loving it within loving and without loving with love and without like because liking is love and love is liking what is liked to be loved within and without. Here's God with the weather.

(change the station)

Green and cotton, that's a lovely chair, I could make love from over there
without a percocet. Un-un-un-un.
Touch the eyes that boil within; you find me nice but I'm not applicable
because I'm a lonely boy without a dog.
And I,
am
God.
And I,
am
God. Nod.

Sugar sweet, silver sweep,
I could touch you in familiar places in unfamiliar ways
I get lost in the boulevard of a sweatshirt
And I,
am
without.
And I,
am
without. Route.

Mhm, that's not a smile,
that's a thirty-foot crocodile
waiting to take a chunk outta my heart.
Art-Art-Art-Art-Art?
******* in separate dreams with the same meaning,
blood boiling in coffee pots and soldiers
without a cover.
Tame me like a child in uniform, from the universe.
Cake drugs like it's an icecream cone. Jesus loves you.
**** in another room
to feel the same.
**** in another mindset
to feel sane. Train.

I'm not a river of veins suffocated by milk skin,
to be without a busted lip is to be kissing without pain.
And to be your God
is to be ******* insane. ******* in a bathub.

Mhm,
you're a painting within a crooked house
inside a straight housewife's flamboyant blouse.
You're sippin' on God and Orange Julius
without a straw.

Ripping out red ribbon rays from rayon replays of a river in ruin
really what did you expect to do with that sort of information
I could cancer caulk chalk with every other walk
to seal your home without home inflammation.

Jesus on a candle clock, with a nail in each hand of the hour
I feel nothing but sugar shame when I sail past his shower.
And I,
am
without remorse.
And I,
am
without remorse. Force.

Candy-coated ***** candidly corroding colored coats into capes
callously creating cowardice,
can you be more?

I have a way to remove myself from great events
and a way to sell lies wrapped up in honest packages.
To be without and which way would you run with me
if I were not a twenty-three
in your eyes,
meteorological decline.

And the winds
carry
me home.
And your eyes
carry
me home.
And your lips
carry
me home.
And your hands
carry
me home.
Home again.

(change the station)

Bone marrow
in my back
touch me, I wanna feel
Give it up
Give it up
I want to make love in love
I want to die and donate
a part of myself
my backbone, lack thereof

(change the station)

Tie a noose around a highschool grad
attach to a college rule to rule how to think the same
because a couple of IDs and free games
help you understand how you understand how you understand
how you understand how you understand how you understand

Dreams.

Whoops.

****.

Two twenty-three inside a church for me because God doesn't have
a responsible doorman, just an abused son and a plot-hole plan.

(change station)

Save the opera for the quiet drinks
I wanna think, I wanna think

(change station)

Sonic tendencies
suicidal sound
My heart is left in a bone,
bone marrow
I'm a broken calcium stick
surrounded by health
I waste away
Waste away for you
Oooh,
I love.

I tried to stay my overstay.

(change the station)

Bronze your lips, I want to kiss you green.
Wait. I could be the best.
Don't walk too far because it feels like walking away.

(change the station)

Super fast
in the past

I used to keep my baby teeth in a butterscotch tin.
I guess I was making an investment
in tooth-fairy stock; trying to diversify my easter bunny portfolio.
Quarters: Like chocolate I could feed into a Coinstar and turn to dollar bills
which I could then use to buy more chocolate.

I just, hey, I just remembered that I have a butterscotch tin filled with quarters
sitting in the back of my closet right now. Funny,
when things move in circles like that--I can’t even remember
the last time I ate a butterscotch. Or even how my final tooth
came out, which I’d think would be a milestone.

I was eating an egg-salad sandwich when I lost one of the last ones--
I just took a bite and one tooth stayed behind.
For weeks I couldn’t even look at a sandwich,
I just kept thinking about the disturbing look of blood on mayonnaise.
I wonder if there’s much business for the tooth fairy these days--
my dad, winding blue ribbons around small stacks of quarters so they’d look nice;
my dad, stepping on LEGOs in the dark and stifling swears;
my dad, navigating bedroom geography to make a swift exchange
while I slept and turned a tidy profit, trading old small parts
for riches and a grown-up mouth.
Now I wonder what they did with my wisdom teeth,
after they pulled them out last year.
Were they drilled out, finally, into dust? Or did
a dental surgeon slip some pilfered teeth
beneath his pillow on the sly,
turning one last profit out of my face,
the summer someone noticed
I needed a grown-up mouth?

All I know is that for days
I stayed at home moaning into my pillow,
strung out on percocet and eating anything
that could be sipped through a straw.
(It was only then I discovered the Sonic had stopped
serving butterscotch shakes--years ago, apparently.
You’d think I’d have noticed. But then, you’d think
I’d notice lots of things.)

I wonder how much my teeth would be worth now.
I wonder if the tooth-fairy has adjusted for inflation.
I still get excited over stray quarters,
but now I guess I just have to find them on the street
like everyone else does.

Drinking summer skin,
I hear the voices in the night sky
I'm a slave to the darkness around the stars,
and I can't remember why

One, two, twenty-three percocet in my soul.
Ambulance lights breathing throughout the mist.
Pump my stomach like the sawed-off shotgun
that I was too afraid to use,
because what if I 'miss'?
What spectrum of desolation to be traced with lips;
to kiss away the desire to exist.

Mirrored reflection injection causes the resurrection of my imperfection.
I see me for who I am, who I was, and who I won't be.
It's the collection of
my eyes dilating and my knees speculating their arrival
to the blue and white tiling disguised as neo-survival.
My mind is evaporating. My body begins to convulse.
I am a ghost in a machine. I am without a pulse

Passing through mid-century
these jazz oneironauts reached Apollonian heights
while society drifted into Dionysian drunkenness
the merchants caught on too soon
The most beautiful parts of humanity
enamored to serve the ugliest:
The merchant class, the bourgeoisie
Buddha’s undeserving in charge
If only in past centuries
those noble princesses embraced
even more lowly patronages
all this potential today could be staved off
Saved from the drive to be commodified
People stopped buying jazz as it reached its height
No more smiles to appease the whites
Jazz for the few
the noble, the individual in the know

Until this too becomes the simulacrum
The Ornette Coleman on the bookshelf
to signify your snootiness
your refinement from wealth
Aging Dads in thousand dollar sweaters
kicking out their 22 year old kids
for being ****** addled hipsters
meanwhile Bird on Verve is nodding out
and Dad’s girlfriend pops a Percocet
to deal with all the stress

She thinks of nobody but herself
But still her bedrooms filled with nails she falls
And always seems to land on her wrist
Gashes a centimeter wide she needs stitches she needs to call an ambulance
She'll bleed out! God ****** she'll bleed out!

But she's not ready to die yet so she stitches herself back up
Hoping she hasn't drained too much
Because she loves the sting the reason she lives is for the sting
And the DRUGS
PILLS: Oxy, Percocet, Vicodin, Demerol
She sniffs them she snorts them she even ******* chews them!
She'll do anything as long as she can float

She won't admit it but she loves life she loves the drugs
And pain and abuse that come with life
She loves the pain, oh *******, she loves the pain
So she stitches herself back up she doesn't want to die
Repeat repeat she does it again
Dripping on the kitchen tile but this time is different

This time she's forgotten about the drugs and the pain
She's focused on her wrist and her wrist and her wrist and her blade
Too deep, she's gone too deep again
But she doesn't care  she's not stitching herself back up
She's ready to die with not enough drugs and
Too much pain
She's ready to leave this world behind
Ready to leave the pills

Don't leave me don't leave me
I love you I love you
Grab the needle, please get the thread
Please just stitch yourself back up stitch yourself back up

I’m sick of the lies
I’m sick of the guise
Be an ******* to my face you *******
Cut me out like a man
Don’t ****** walk away like I did you wrong
I’ve given you nothing but love from the beginning
and you snap it back in my face
*****, I can your disgrace
and this race of ungrateful haste should rethink their approach in the presence of a kind heart and unwavering loyalty
boy,
you pushed me to the edge
and so I pledge
to never trust a soul
cuz this tossing and turning in yearning cuts deep
and I don’t get enough sleep
so count your sheep and be gone without a peep you ******* creep
I’m too real to pretend
In a world of fake embellishments to conceal god’s embroidery
I really thought you’d mean more to me
but you blend n bend just like the rest and to me
you’re just a guest so save me
the best
As I attest to never rest my pen for a pimpled partridge laced to dance to the tune we all know is rehearsed
I’m different
I see your past
I see your essence
I know your actions before you make them and lemme tell you
I could sell you here and now but you wouldn’t be worth it.
Don’t name me n game me like your dame to-be cuz I hear your hesitation and bruises
look like ******* on wanna be bad boys
**** all that noise
I’ve done that ****
I’ve lived that life
And I can play ***** less flirty and more wordy than a whole gurney of gays with no praise for your plug’s percocet purse you’re tryna nurse cuz no curse will salvage a sick man’s mind
Next time, don’t even bother
hittin me up for a quick ****
cuz you blew that chance a long time ago and I’d have to be on twice the amount of **** I was on then to ******* now
Ha! Like you’d even know how!
I’ve seen your hickeys of conquests Do you think I’m blind?
And that shows you’ve still gotta brag
boy, I’ve ****** your whole family with out a scratch so catch a disease cuz you’ll never please between my knees
You were beneath me from the beginning
But I gave you the doubt
And still
you’d rather smash for the clout cuz your way out of this drought are delusions of grandeur
not credible candor

Nothing in particular
Just high
Addicted ****** ****

**** my liver
Kidneys
Dissociation is the key

I've spotted the freight train
Have I made it?

Bring me there I beg you
Spoon me
Me, the spoon, all me

Drink DRINK like a FISH

pop pop pass percocet
C-c-c-c-c-cocaaaaiiinneeeeee

***** ****** bored, dumb

**** my LIVER AND KIDNEYS
Dolla dolla nose job **** a stuffy
**** me on a tuesday, sneez sick puppy horsey

Cant finde me
Kant fine me

Run run run run run baby, yes ya do
Explain but not excuse

Substitute kkkills as much
Methadopamine or a xany ***** one night
Dextrahydraphetamine, ketamine meta-clean

Don't try. Understand to
Completely

Every spring runs dry
       **** son, 'least enjoy the high

"Which are You?
Those who go to bed early
Look forward to tomorrow
Those who dread the coming day
Stay up until they can see the sun
Just to make sure they'll make it." -Sara K

To Sarah k which are you?

I'm the one who wishes to sleep early looking forward for the day.
But as the night gets older I start dreading for tomorrow.
At 10 pm is two nyquil with water.
From 11 to 12 is dark liquor.
Hennessy or Remy hoping that'll do the trick
I just want to sleep until God calls me.
1230 hits I'm still wide awake
So I crush and roll and my eyes blood clot
By 1am my body is done but my mind still racing.
I take a percocet feeling if I numb the body just enough I can numb the brain and lay to rest
I don't want to see tomorrow anymore
I don't want the to sun rise.
Is winter time in NY so light has yet to hit the horizon
2,3,4, I toss, I turn
Turmoil in my train of thoughts
As if I was walking through the river of sorrows
At 5 I finally close my eyes
630 finally arrives
My window is perfectly aligned with the sun
While the rays go through my shades
And rest upon my eyes
I awake maybe wishing I would be laid to rest
Chilly morning and my day begins
Xanax for my anxiety and depression
Adderall to keep me focus and awake
Red bull for breakfast and I'm on my way.

I am the one that whish he sleeps but is always wide awake writing with blood as if it was ink.

Simple words wrapped around stagnant constitutions
written for half *** revolution.
There will be no more Zach and Sineigh.
No more Signature graveyards.
No more Percocet 30.
A real lose, lose.
Shame in what I miss most.

Square one.
Basic education
on top
middle class foundation.
Teased by a girl
eating off China.
Rules enforced
by the best case scenario.

[[I think this is the second half of the first one I found scrounging.  I split them up into two cause they sound better that way.  I still didn't change a word.]]
[[[I wrote the bold part]]]

Wondering
What I left behind
Sitting
On my life unkind
*******
Cause the man's upset
Sitting
On a percocet

Coffee and cigarettes don't do it for me anymore
I'm shooting up on life
And it's unbelievable
I can't control the way I feel
About this urge to take the pills
They **** the pain and sorrow of your lies

**Splitting!
Headache, you can't take the wait
Urging!
To wait, swallow your pains one day
Knowing!
you hate yourself and what you make

I think back to 5 years ago,
To those days in northern New York,
Where my life felt like some coming-of-age tale,
Coming into my own.

Each day was its own chapter,
Shenanigans and hijinks,
Bar room brawls and short-lived loves,
Drunken tattoos and crutching on snow 2 feet deep,
Barracks parties and field exercise tomfoolery,
Oh, how it all seems like such a dream now.

Fleeing from authorities,
Cackling with buddies as we disappeared into the crowd to make it to the next bar,
Showing up to work on Monday with a recently broken nose, blackened eye, and ****-eating grin,
With my buddies sporting similar signs,
Our First Sergeant taking stock of these injuries,
And walking onward with a little smirk.

Walking through Watertown,
Feeling the age of that military town,
Filled with secondhand stores and oddities,
My God such a surreal dream.

Stuck in bed,
Knee wrapped up in bandages,
Protecting all the stitches beneath,
Looking out the winter at the blizzard outside,
Craving a working leg more than the percocet,
And knowing that the dream was coming to an end.

I used to consider chapstick makeup.
I used to consider using conditioner “doing my hair”.
Now it takes me 90 minutes to deem myself acceptable enough to show my face.
Where did that carefree attitude go?
It used to be that the lengthiest part of my morning routine was brushing my teeth.
Now my makeup covers scars as well as blemishes.
Now calories are not something I’m studying in a small elementary school classroom, but deceitful numbers that bury themselves into my mind and thighs.
The beach used to be a safe haven to splash into and gasp out of.
Now I dread the idea of squeezing into a bathing suit.
I cry at my reflection and shout expletives at the scale.
I starve just to keep my demons at bay, and cut as a peace offering.
I use Percocet as an anesthetic for the pain of waking up in my bed everyday.
I wish I could say I used to make love, but since love was not used to make me, how could I?
I reach out to those ever-growing shadows and I cling to the corners of remembering.
I do not fear death, but I fear the memory I leave behind…

No room for me
in that space you need..
So I fed my disgrace
with percocet and ****.
I've been ripped off before
and still haven't been paid,
but trading love for percocet
is the worst deal I've ever made.

They said we had it all
Middle American brats
bottom barrel aristocrats
we were told we were
propitious children
left alone to wonder
the bland landscape
of our gated community
to stand in submission
in our lovely subdivision

When things changed
it was us they blamed
or the media
or the influence of the ghetto
so far away
but never did we stray
it all came to us
and that was OK
we wanted something more
then material things

Our parents were there
but never really there
not enough to care
though they thought they were
Asking random questions
drinking their cocktails of
white wine and ******
telling us to turn down the volume
and what kind of ****
were we listening to today
telling us how music was better
back in their day

You gave us the world and in return
we shouldered all the blame
took the blame for all the pain
and were reminded daily of
how things could have been
how things should have been
if only you waited to have kids

And you wonder why we
f*ck and fight
stay up all night
become drunken fools at seventeen
just so we can change the routine
so we can feel alive by slowly dying
cigarette smoke and xanax bars
some percocet then drive our cars
to some place
any place
where someone will tell us that
we are special and unique
beautiful as they touch our cheek
and make us feel human again
smart and talented
more then our cookie cutter
gated box of a life
we have been told since birth
we must carry on

We just want to feel alive
to feel that someone really knows us
deep inside
from front and back
To feel that we are good enough
that its OK to be different
to feel different
and still know you will
love us just the same
and take back some of the blame
to hold us up so we don’t fall
and shatter like glass
from a child to a parent,
is that too much to ask?

David Martin

I
A scream scares the day away and makes the night a dark eternity.
Mating calls lurching behind barstools talking about nothing and jumping deeper into conversation over the bovine carcass at Applebee's.
Desolate honkytonks fueled by Percocet and chlamydia, fat musicians and anthems of Beer drunkenness hanging over the toilet to ***** their soul away for a buzz.
Coal diggers and gold diggers painted in black and red and the pinks drips down their leg to a puddle of shame. Crying in the corner for a fix with their broken knees and backs and their black lungs and their pharmacies of solutions that end up being their prison. Poisoning the air with the smoke of death and masculinity with broken hands punching the walls until the blood pours.
The **** of the body and land in unison in mind, flutters from our corner of the world to the coast
then to the heavens where it again rapes. Where it forces itself upon the consciousness of a nation
That buys it up and sells it again for naut. Souls of the lost gather for your final baptism in pain, together,
Ready and willing for more.
Trailers like tombstones in the distance at the end of hollers buried beside their dignity in the mines. Eternal monuments to good enough sprouting from every seed wasted in the divine Goddess who is reduced to the ***** of Hazard and surrounding counties.
Repeat the cycle of suffering.
Churches of skeletons praying for that divine **** of death,
reap what ye sew,
Harvest of the men in plenty,
eat for your fill!

                                                            II
I­t has been a cold winter, and I have traveled to the land of my heroes, who live now only on the page and in spirit alike.   I have bussed cross nation, gone to Boulder and Denver and dear Allen Ginsberg I found out the time. I search for the street where I can find you, curl up in your beard, hear your stories, and hitchhike with you to Nirvana. I have snowshoed high and happy with friends and have no regrets only that I didn't stay longer.  Played music on the top of mountains and felt them dance under me. I have been reborn with life and friends and it is good enough. Dislocated souls connecting in the ephemeral plane somewhere between Kentucky and Colorado in dreams and though and music and poetry and body and soul.

She denies each year that creeps
into her fragile bones as
careless creases inch around her eyes
and we shelter her,
carry her and care for her;
calm her when she weeps,
stroke her hair as she sleeps and
breathe shallow as we hope
she makes it
through another year,
month, week--

stop.

She never wanted the
fetus now flushed
into the void of all
unwanted things;
rejected from a life
it could not choose.

It would have been
just another crutch
she never used.

I wonder if she shrugged
as she lost you,
tiny one?
Shrugged as you held on tight...

You existed then were gone
like a hiccup,
like a dream, so real-
until eyes re-enter light.

She drowns herself in
percocet and loose joints
and she'll forget you
too soon;

stamp you down
into the mud of memories
squished into the back of the room.

Loving you was
the veins full of
Percocet,
Bad decisions and empty words.
Used our pasts to cure our presents,
Or to numb the pain
Enough to make it to sunrise.

Loving you was
The liquor lies we told
That burned my throat raw
When they asked about us.
Silent swears and repentance.
"Tomorrow."

I realized tonight that I don't love you
and the tattoo of you wrapped around my shoulders hasn't comforted me in ages

but memories are as deadly..

do you remember the night I fell asleep clutching a bottle of xanax and adderall
a concoction from hell
blackout and ****** that I can't trust either of us alone anymore
that's the first time you call me "******" to my face

and wasn't it a surprise that everything only got worse after that

remember when you'd hold me when I was terrified of waking up
and you'd sing so sweetly to sooth the rush of poison in my veins

remember when the blood trail behind the needle was ****
and making love is how we'd describe the way we ****** with our clothes on and the lights out

yeah, me neither

remember the first time we got physical
and it wasn't **** at all

YEAH, ME NEITHER
maybe because it happens all the time now

remember when waking up wasn't the scary part anymore?
because we were more worried about whether we were falling asleep
or just dying this time

you can count me out of that one, too!!
because I have been so ready to close my eyes for so long since you

remember the first time you didn't mean it when you said "i love you"
I wanna be certain we're thinking of the same instance
that I wasn't just months late to the punchline
of this ****** up joke we've been playing on each other ever since we decided to stop sleeping in the same bed

I swear to the only god that'll ever save me
whoever she is
I'll go back to the misery of meeting every morning like a battle field if it means I don't ever have to think of you again

but I remember everything you ever said
every time you held your head back while I traced your pale skin for a good place to inject our sins
I remember exactly what you tasted like the first time we kissed
after begging for all the percocet I had left

remember the way that I loved you..
and how dangerous it'd be
if I still did

How did I get here?
What year did I get
hooked? I can say
it began in 7th/8th grade,
but this has been going on
much longer.
   I was born addicted
to breathing too hard, kicking,
screaming, fighting everything
going on around me.

   I was born addicted to
burning. I have always reveled
in my own shadow. Been addicted
to addictions. Been hooked on
the Boogey man and the monsters
in my closet.
I remember,
I was 5,
tried to play with
my nightmares, but
they were playing with
my dreams and psyche.

I'm in a downwards
roller coaster. I swear it was
going up,
   Then again after all
the drugs I'm surprised
my inner ear has any sense
of direction.
I've been lost in a hurricane
filled with marijuana,
amphetamines, all the alcohol
you could wish for.
  ******, *******, Percocet, acid,
  shrooms, Ecstacy, Xanax, I've
  popped pills with no clue of the
  name.
  Snorted so many different chemicals
  I got a nose bleed for 2 hours.
  and took another bump
  when the road looked safe.

My path of addiction is
embedded in my DNA.
I swear I was born
on fire.
    I burn through each day,
    I burn through each moment,
    I burned through my own brain.
Burn out... That's what you call it.

Hallowed Squalls
Feast On Urgency
And Selfish Leeches Prey
On Elixir And Vacancy
And He Is A God
And She
An Empress
Both Laced
In Pearls Of Doom
And Decayed Ribbons
Plunged In Blooms
Of Promising Tomorrows
Glazed In Candy Dreams
Her Milk Skin
Pink Doll Pout
Latch Onto Lethal Axons
At Lover's Disposal
A Percocet Simper
Curled By An Eager Frenzy
Painted Deftly
By Covetous Fingertips
And Raging Sighs
Motion And Heat
Friction And Force
Gliding Avarice
Across Swollen Motive
And She Will Grovel
And Seek Execution
A Slave For The Soul

when i'm sitting in a cheap plastic chair, trying to
explain to the doctor how bad the pain feels on a
scale of one through ten, i will tell him that it is a
nine. i have experienced what a ten feels like.
1. ten is when you told me to *******, to go ahead
and **** myself because nobody could miss me.
2. ten is having someone you love convince you
that you are only a hurricane, tearing everything
down into rubble and obliterating everything.
3. ten is believing that i am a hurricane, i am a
tsunami, i am a wildfire, i am a natural disaster
4. ten is seeing a part of you in every part of my
small society. you are an omnipresent spirit that
tends to enjoy haunting my nightmares.
5. ten is seeing you happy without me.
and the worst part is, doctors are only able to do
so much right now. all they can do is numb me
out with percocet and hear me talk about how
i miss the way you smiled because of me and
how i don't do enough to make you happy.

- kra

17 I taught myself how to use my left hand
when I broke all my knuckles
and took enough Percocet to put an elephant to sleep

17 I got a tattoo on my lower back
and fell in love with being a god
(that's why I still do *******)

17 my favorite lips told me
she thought she might love me
one day

i'm too young to be grateful